


Union

by Katzedecimal



Series: Rat, Wedding, Bow [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have every intention of formalising their partnership.  Now, if that pesky sniper fellow would just <i>let</i> them...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Little Slice of Heaven

It was a cold and rainy evening but John Watson didn't mind. He lay on the couch, balanced precariously along the edge, held in place by a strong arm against a warm body. A fire crackled in the grate and something mindlessly stupid chattered away on the telly. His belly was full of Chinese take-away and beer. It was cold and rainy and he, John Watson, was in heaven. 

It had been a truly ghastly day. Hours of tedium at the surgery that had dulled his senses, then a purse snatcher snatched the wrong purse and suddenly Dr. John Watson, trauma medicine specialist, was urgently needed on scene, kneeling on the sidewalk in front of the surgery, blood and rain soaking his trousers. Hours in the rain were followed by hours in sodden clothes as the police took the statements of himself, the purse-snatching victim slash assault-with-great-bodily-harm suspect, and every staff and patient present at the surgery at the time. He texted home when it looked like he wouldn't be allowed to leave any time soon. An officer had brought him tea and he checked his media player to find that Barnes and Barnes' _Fish Heads_ had been uploaded in response. And he'd laughed and laughed, laughing in his high-pitched giggle that annoyed so many people but charmed the heart of one, and he found he had the strength to give his statement. 

He'd come home to hot take-away and cold beer, the fireplace crackling, his pyjamas and dressing gown warming over the radiator, and his miracle, playing the violin and gazing at him with that precious little smile. 

The exhaustion sheeted away and John's heart swelled with so much joy, he felt he would burst. Then he towelled off and changed and ate and let himself be drawn down to the couch to be snuffled and kissed and cuddled possessively like he was a teddy bear and had he ever, _ever_ felt so happy? 

Yes... Yes, he had. When he found Sherlock again, in a train station in Oslo. When they'd shared a bed and woken up together for the first time (and the second and the third and so on and so on and so on) When he'd forgotten his cane to chase after a cabbie in the darkness. When the tall dark stranger had told him about his own life within minutes of meeting him. When he'd realised, deep in his soul, _This is The One._ "Thanks for this," he whispered. 

Sherlock answered with a non-committal grunt. The fire crackled and the telly babbled. Finally he said, "Mycroft's got the paperwork in."

A wave of happiness spread through John so strongly, it bubbled out in giggles. "I can't believe I'm really doing this."

He felt Sherlock go still behind him. "You don't have to," he said in a neutral voice that would have covered his anxiety had he been speaking to anyone other than John. 

John considered that for a few moments. "Have you been sniffing the idiot cologne?" he said affectionately, rubbing Sherlock's fingers and lacing his own through them. 

"Now that you mention it, Anderson was around the Yard today." John broke up in giggles, making Sherlock smile against his shoulder. Then the smile faded. "It's just... I know about the law, John."

"Yes, well.... I'll just have to live with that, won't I," he sighed and patted Sherlock's hand. 

"It's just that..."

"It's just that you're an arrogant git, a walking danger zone, an incurable hoarder, a collector of human bits and pieces, and impossible for anyone to live with if their name isn't John Hamish Watson."

"......yes."

"And what's my name?"

"....john hamish watson."

"I only went and _hunted you down_ so I could have it all back, yeah?" Sherlock was silent behind him. "Unless _you've_ changed your mind?" 

The arm around him clutched convulsively, momentarily winding John. "Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock said, " _Someone_ has to protect you from all those gold-diggers grubbing around." John burst into giggles again -- Once Sherlock's name was cleared, John had resumed blogging and suddenly they were both Attractive again. They fell silent and listened to the crackle of the fire and the babble of the telly. 

"Sherlock... While you were.. gone... I had a normal life. Wife, steady job, tidy flat covered in knick-knacks, evenings at the pub. I had worse nightmares than ever. I couldn't take it. I was having flashbacks and even had a few full-immersion flashbacks. I was in to see Ella more often than ever, eventually stopped because Mycroft had it right. She thought it was the war but it wasn't, it was the normalcy. That's when I realised that what had let me endure my 'normal' life before, was you. You and the Work and being anything **but** 'normal.'" The silence behind him sucked like a void, pulling the words out of him, "I was getting better because I had you. I wasn't having as many nightmares because I had you and your violin waking me up at all hours of the night and then putting me back to sleep again. I stopped having full-immersions when I lost my cane, did you know that? Even the flashbacks got better because you were right there, keeping me busy in the present, keeping me grounded. Then I lost you and it all came back. Everything, even my stupid psychosomatic limp."

"It did? You weren't limping in Oslo."

"Nope," John popped the P with satisfaction, "I'm getting better again, because I have you."

Sherlock fell silent again. "When did you work it out?" he asked at last.

"That you'd faked your death?" John smiled wryly, "Had a full-immersion. I was watching that episode of _The Mentalist_ and got stuck reliving it, only this time I could notice a few things that stood out. Then they played that episode of _Star Trek_ with all the robots and they melted the robot's brain by telling him 'everything I say is a lie' then 'I'm lying.' So I checked the pathology reports and when I saw Molly had done them, I realised you might still be alive."

"I was trying to tell you, on the roof," Sherlock said softly, "But you were too distraught to hear what I was saying underneath the words."

"Can you blame me?"

"No."

"You were crying."

"Yes. Can you blame me?"

"Not at all. I hope you never have to cry like that again." The silence stretched out and John rolled, intending to face Sherlock, and fell off the couch. "...Ow."

Sherlock peered over the edge, "John? Are you alright?" John reached up and grabbed his collar, pulling him down. "Ack!"

"Oof! Cor, Sherlock, you don't weigh half as much as Mycroft now, do you?"

"You're the one who keeps insisting I eat."

* * * * 

_"Yes? Do I know you?"_

_"Not yet, Ms. Watson. Says here, I'm to make you an offer you really shouldn't refuse."_


	2. Bachelor Party, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DI Lestrade kidnaps John for his idea of a bachelor party at the pub. Molly thinks Sherlock is being mean again.

It was an unexpected sight. Between his service in the army and his association with Sherlock, John had seen many things, but this definitely went on the notables list. He stared at the man sitting inside the coroplast playpen, legs stretched out in front of him, and shook his head in bemusement as the man tickled the sides of the rat then splayed his fingers, sending it zipping away, the other one zooming back for another turn. "It's like those wind-up zip cars, when we were kids," John chuckled. 

"I know, right?" Greg Lestrade grinned up at him. He caught up Steve and turned him over, tickling his belly. Next to him, a little box emitted a plethora of chirps. "And this thing is just too great! Listen to him! Only Sherlock Holmes would think of bringing home a bat transducer."

John shook his head, amused, "Rats laugh when you tickle them.... I didn't even know they did anything more than squeak once in a while." He glanced at the clock then passed a pair of felt bags to Lestrade, "Just about time. We'll take the boys with us."

Lestrade lifted an eyebrow along with a rat, "You're sure? Won't they escape, get into mischief?"

John shook his head, "They seem quite content to cuddle in the pouch and we've found them to be... useful."

Lestrade's expression changed slightly, "I see. Alright then. C'mon, lads, we're going for a ride!"

"Where are we going, anyways?"

"Pub," Lestrade grinned, "It's your bachelor party!"

"Oh **no,** " John groaned and Lestrade laughed, dragging him out the door. 

* * * *

"So where's Sherlock this evening," Greg asked. The pub was half populated this evening, something John appreciated.

"Barts, picking up some spleens to test a theory. Expect the flat to be a right mess for a while."

"It's always a mess."

"Believe it or not, he knows where everything is. It looks chaotic but its a filing system, don't ask me how he remembers it all," John shrugged, "Actually it's gotten better, what with Mary's old kanban board and me getting some clues."

"I'm sorry about your wife. I guess Sherlock's coming back helps to deal with the loss?"

"Other way around, actually," John admitted, "Mary helped me deal with losing Sherlock. She... sort of filled in the gap, while he was... gone, I suppose."

Greg shook his head, "Still hard dealing with that. 'Round the department, they still can't believe he could do that to you."

"Well they weren't the ones with bloody targets on their heads, were they?" John snarled, "I know, I've heard them, I've heard everyone. Everyone goes on and on about how could Sherlock do that to me, they're all 'poor John, he was so devastated,' and nobody seems to give a right toss about what it did to _Sherlock!_ " John shifted uncomfortably in the sudden silence, aware that several people had drawn away. 

"Maybe we'll get one of the booths," Greg said consciensiously. When they'd resettled, he asked, "What _did_ it do to Sherlock?"

"A lot," John sighed, "It could have been worse but.. it was bad. He came very close to relapsing, several times, and who could blame him? He'd only lost everything. Just when life was finally going alright, just when he was actually almost **happy** , some maniac goes and forces him to lose it all. I mean, I nearly followed down Harry's road; I couldn't have blamed him if he'd started shooting up again to dull the pain, but somehow he managed to stave it off."

"How?"

"'John would be disappointed,'" John smiled sadly, "Isn't that awful? Never mind that I'd rather have him back addicted than beyond the reach of any drug. He wasn't even sure he could ever see me again but that's what he chose to get him through." He pulled out his phone and opened an encrypted folder, then turned it to Greg, "Here."

"Good lord," Lestrade breathed, staring at the image, "Are you **sure** he hadn't relapsed? He didn't look that bad when he was a junkie!"

"That was just after Bangkok. He had to go deep cover and it ended badly. Very badly."

Lestrade stared at the image of Sherlock asleep, lines of exhaustion drawing his face even longer than usual. Dark shadows ringed his eyes, sunken deeply into a skull that was all too clearly visible beneath his pallid skin. "I see what you mean. God."

John took the phone back. "I keep that one to remind myself, whenever people start going on like that. He did this for us, Greg - you, me, and Mrs. Hudson. That's what it did to him, and he did it for us."

Greg shook his head, "Don't kid yourself, John - he did it for you." He took a long pull off his pint then asked, "How is he now? I know he _looks_ a thousand times better and he seems mostly okay upstairs but how is he really?"

"He's got worse PTSD than I do, Greg, and that's a fact. And I've no idea what to do for him. Whenever I'd have nightmares, he'd play his violin, as you know." Greg nodded, remembering. "But I can't play the violin and I have absolutely no idea what to do for him, I feel so bloody helpless. Helpless and useless. I bring him tea, that's all I can do. He calms down a little if I bring him some tea."

"He dreams about falling?"

John hesitated before replying, "And.. bullets. I told you about the assassins on us, the whole time he was up there."

Lestrade nodded, understanding, "He dreams about the what-ifs."

John nodded, "I know what he's dealing with, I deal with it too. But he's always managed to fix me and I have no idea how to fix him."

"Tried EMDR?" Greg offered.

"What's that?"

Greg arched an eyebrow, "Your therapist's never mentioned it? Bloody hell, maybe she really is a crap therapist. I'll get you some names, we keep a few around the department for when people get overwhelmed. It's a therapy specifically for PTSD, not so much the talking-about-your-feelings kind. Sounds hokey but I've seen it work. You might look into it."

"Ta, I'd appreciate that. As long as I don't have to write another blog. That's where it all went wrong."

"I wondered if you were going to start writing again."

John studied his pint. "I don't know," he said finally, "It brought in the clients but it also brought Moriarty - he never would have found Sherlock if it weren't for my bloody blog. My blog brought Sherlock fame that he'd never really wanted and that made it that much easier to destroy him."

"John, you can't blame yourself--"

"Oh yes I can!" 

An uncomfortable silence stretched out. Finally Lestrade took another pull of his beer and changed the subject. "Tell me more about this Moran bloke who's planting spies on my teams. Bloody didn't see that coming. Macpherson was one of Anderson's, you know."

"Where is Anderson, anyways? Haven't seen either of the Gruesome Twosome around for a while."

"Told my superiors I refused to work with them, didn't I," Greg smirked, "Got them transferred out. I still have to work with them from time to time but they're not chuffed now that Sherlock's back."

"No, I shouldn't think so," John said thoughtfully, "Best to keep an eye on them, then. They've got the motive and they hate Sherlock enough to be susceptible."

"Excellent points," Lestrade said, equally thoughtful.

John looked around - for a 'bachelor party', it was awfully empty. "Are we expecting anyone else to show up?"

"Just us, mate," Greg grinned. The grin got wider when he saw the tension relax out of John's body, "And that's why. Figured you might not be comfortable with a full-on, you know?"

"Yeah," John nodded and sighed, "All the bloody 'I told you sos' and the off-colour comments about what he's like to live with."

"Challenging, I expect."

But John just shook his head and smiled, "For anybody else, maybe, but... he's fine. For me, he's just fine."

* * * *

Eventually the smell of coffee penetrated his concentration and drew him out to acknowledge it was there. He took a sip and put the cup back down, intending to return to his work, when he noticed the giver looking at him oddly. "What?"

"It..'s nothing... I know you don't like me talking to you," Molly stammered, "It's... You seem happier, that's all."

"Why do you say that?"

"It's... I don't know... It's in your eyes, I guess. You don't look so sad anymore."

"Not that - the other thing. Why do you think I don't like to talk to you?"

She blushed and looked away, "You said it's not my area..."

"It isn't," Sherlock replied, "You're very uncomfortable with social conversation. You become self-conscious and nervous because you're afraid you'll say the wrong thing and you stammer much more frequently. Nobody wants to hear about life in the morgue and you share few interests with your peer group so that leaves you little to talk about. When we talk about things that are in your area, your demeanor completely changes: You relax, you don't stammer as much and you become more sure of yourself." He turned back to the microscope then gave her a sly look, "You like to be around me precisely because I **don't** require you to converse."

Molly blushed but nodded, "That's true, actually."

"And I don't command you to smile, a demand that you hate but capitulate to anyways with alarming frequency. You should stop, you know, it only gives people the impression that you're a doormat."

Molly's half-formed smile froze. "...There's nothing wrong with smiling," she tried, knowing full well she was lying. 

Sherlock glanced up, then leaned over the microscope and looked at her. "If there's something worth smiling about, then no. But **ordering** you to smile? Demanding it, as if you're their entertainment? They're telling you you don't have a right to your own face. If they're so threatened by you not smiling, they're the ones with the problem, not you."

"...No one wants an unhappy person working in a morgue."

Sherlock huffed, "Was I smiling?"

"... No."

"Yet nevertheless, you could tell that I'm happy."

"...Yes."

"Happy people aren't always smiling," Sherlock said, turning back to the microscope, then glanced at her again, "And smiling people aren't always happy. Pretending to be someone you're not gives you anxiety and stress; I don't require it of you so please stop."

Molly slammed her cup down and stalked towards the door. Halfway there, she spun around and yelled, "Why must you always say such mean things?"

"How is telling you to be yourself mean?" The silence fell like a weight and stretched out as Molly tried to process that. "This is why it wouldn't have worked, Molly," Sherlock said softly, "I'm telling you you can drop your acts, relax, and be yourself around me because I know who you really are, but somehow what you take from that is I'm being mean to you. You're not _listening_ and that's disappointing because you're really **much** more clever than that."

Molly looked away. She picked up her cup again and sipped, her shoulders hunched. Finally she whispered, "I don't know how to be myself. Sometimes I don't think I have a self to be."

"I know. I've watched you - you're like an actor, playing roles. You change roles depending on what the situation calls for. I've watched you copy people who've handled a situation well, and you developed a new role from that, in effect you're becoming that person. I've watched you be as many as thirty different people in a day, but the only time you're Molly Hooper is when you think you're alone in the morgue." Molly said nothing, her back still turned but the set of her shoulders had changed. "I traveled with some other women like you, while I was dead. I'll introduce you, the next time they're in London. Karen's just like you and she likes _Glee._ Well.. I say 'likes'..."

"Yes," Molly said finally, turning slightly, "It's not... it's going in a... different direction." She took a long swallow of her tea and turned around fully, "So.... What has you happy?"

"Mm.. Paperwork's finally arrived. Once we've signed it, John and I will be 'official.'"

Molly's lips twitched into a hopeful smile, "When is the wedding?"

"Not having one."

"Why not?"

"Pointless. We've already exchanged vows once, why do it again?"

"...What about rings?"

"We're getting them tattooed. However, I'm told there have to be people watching me sign a piece of paper, so keep your evenings free."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some ACD plot shenanigans coming up soon, no really


	3. Bachelor Party, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's bachelor party includes an unexpected surprise and it isn't a girl jumping out of a cake.

"Unbelievable!"

"It's the truth! No word of a lie. And every time he does it, I can't help laughing -- which is why he does it."

"Unbelievable. Other people would just give you flowers. Buy you a beer, maybe."

"Oh that's nothing, Sherlock stole me an ashtray once."

"An ashtray."

"That's right, from Buckingham Palace."

"Unbelievable! Do you still have it?"

"No no, I gave it away, disposed of the evidence. It was the thought that counted."

Lestrade laughed. The night air was crisp after the heat in the pub and he looked up at the few stars barely visible over London's light pollution. "You know, if I hadn't seen him with the ratties, I would have had trouble believing any of that."

"He has a fuzzy side," John agreed, "It's just it's been shut away for so long, it's gone mouldy." They broke up laughing again as they turned a corner down a side street. "Thanks for this, Greg. I really don't think I could have handled an ordinary bachelor party but this was good."

"Hanging out with your mate and talking about the bloke who stole your heart away?" John broke into giggles and Lestrade shook his head, laughing, "Lord, listen to you! How does Sherlock put up with that? Listen to you, you sound like a little girl!"

"At least it isn't ordinary," John grinned, "Which is probably why Sherlock likes it."

"True. He'd probably go right off you if you laughed like an ordinary bloke." 

"He'd go right off me if I _was_ an ordinary bloke, period," John sighed, "Which is what I always thought I was, but... He says he just doesn't ever get bored of me."

Greg thought of the image of Sherlock, wasted and nearly skeletal. "Well whatever it is you've got, mate, he couldn't live without it." 

"No," John said slowly "No, I suppose he couldn't."

"Are either of you changing your names?"

"Well I thought about it, then I realised I'd be John Holmes and then people would be always after me to prove it." Greg looked puzzled for an instant then burst into hysterical laughter. John grinned, "Yeah, it's a bit not good."

"Yeah, best to keep the Watson, then." The detective inspector wiped ihs eyes, then inhaled deeply and looked up at the sky again. "Hey, John? Is that a red giant up there?"

"Nope."

"And Steve and Anthony stopped moving about a block ago."

"Reckon someone's spotted a two-for-one deal. Give me the rats."

Wordlessly, Lestrade took off the cuddle pouch and passed it over to John, who put it on while he stepped into a pool of mixed streetlight and deep shadows and seemed to blend right into them. "Good trick!"

"It's something I learned in Afghanistan," John said. His voice was utterly calm, casual, with no trace of the beer he'd been drinking. "Stand over there, it'll make you harder to sight on. He'll either take a trial shot or leave." John turned slowly, casually. His eyes were on the windows and rooves but his attention was on the rats. "There he is. Up there and to the right."

"And there's the targeting light," Lestrade nodded. Tension prickled his skin as he eased his gun out of its holster.

"Here it comes. Gust of wind coming up, try to move with it."

Lestrade grit his teeth, hearing the wind sweeping up the street, blowing papers and causing tree branches to sway, stirring the shadows. Then he saw the tiny red light and the brickwork behind him cracked and rained shards as he spun away. _Silencer,_ he realised. His pistol barked as another shot splintered near John's position. "John?" The doctor had blended so closely into the light and shadow, it took Lestrade a few moments to realise that he wasn't there now. "John!"

Too loud. His voice drew a third shot, much too close. Then a pistol barked in the darkness and it certainly wasn't Lestrade's, but the yelp that answered it certainly wasn't John. Then the distant, muffled sounds of cursing, and footsteps vanishing over the rooftops. "Bloody hell," Lestrade hissed, "And if I got a team here, they wouldn't find enough to go on, would they."

"Probably not," John's voice appeared beside him, startling him, "But we can have a look ourselves."

"Yes, by the sounds of it, I might have tagged him with my second shot." Lestrade deliberately kept his gaze on the spot where the gunman had disappeared. As his eyes adjusted, he saw the thin lines of the old fire escape, barely visible in the shifting light and shadows. A few minutes brought them up to the level where the shooter had been. 

"Good boys," John was saying, petting the rats whose twitching whiskery noses were just visible over the edge of the pouch. "Here," he pointed to a section of splintered wood, "There's blood here and some hair. Looks like you just skimmed his head."

"Good shot," Lestrade breathed.

"Yes, you are."

Lestrade withdrew his gloves and field evidence kit and began collecting the samples, "Excellent. Once we get this to Pathology, we can run a DNA match through the system and see what we can turn up."

"He's in the international system," John said, "Sherlock has a friend in the American FBI who was able to turn up quite a bit about him."

"Even better." He sealed the plastic bag, "How'd you know where he was?"

John shrugged and scritched some little heads, "Followed the rats. I said we've found them useful - the closer Moran is, the more they tense up. I just followed their body language." He jerked his chin at the evidence kit, "Get a sample for Sherlock while you're at it. He'll appreciate it."

_'And if you run into blocks following official channels, we can run them through unofficial channels,'_ Greg translated as he collected the second sample, _Because there's a mercenary on the street who doesn't stop just because his employer died, who's putting his spies into the Met itself, and he's trying to kill two of the most valuable people and best friends I've ever known. ....and me, too, right. Funny how that's the last thing that occurs to me._ "Are you alright?" he said as he straightened up, "You're bleeding!"

John passed a hand over his neck then looked at his palm and shrugged, "Just a few scratches from the brick chips, it's fine. Ready to go?"

Greg nodded, "Think I'd best accompany you back to Baker Street though."

"It's not necessary. He's gone."

"Just the same."

"Suit yourself then," John shrugged and started walking again. Within a few minutes, he was talking about Sherlock again as though nothing had happened. Lestrade shook his head, once again amazed at the doctor's resiliance - and his calm. He'd known coppers who'd been on the force for decades, who weren't as collected as Dr. John H. Watson. He thought about the doctor's earlier anxiety, when he thought he might have to deal with a large party full of people, contrasted to how level he'd been under the sniper's gun. "..Just.. never thought it would be a _bloke_ , you know?" John was saying, "But he's right, really... It's the mind. It was his mind, and the rest just sort of got pulled along with it. Ah!" Lestrade looked up as a grin suddenly flashed over John's face. "Speak of the devil and you see his scarf! Hello, you two! What brings you to Baker Street, Molly?"

"She's over at Montagu Mews now," Sherlock said. 

"I had to move," said the pretty girl beside Sherlock, "The new landlord at my old place doesn't like pets."

"Ah, so we're practically neighbors now," John smiled, "Haven't you learned yet? Now he'll be knocking on your door all the time, wanting to keep his experiments in your fridge." She giggled then nodded and shrugged. "You remember Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"At Sherlock's homecoming party, yes."

"Yes," Lestrade drawled but his eyes weren't on Molly, "Speaking of... If you lads are out here... Who's in your flat?"

Their heads whipped around. Sure enough, there was a silhouette of someone moving slowly near the window. "Too tall to be Mrs. Hudson," John said in a low voice, "And we had an altercation earlier." He shot Sherlock a Glance, "One of the Colonel's boys?"

"No," Sherlock said grimly, "Worse."

" ** _Oh._** " John saw Lestrade reaching for his phone and waved him down, "No, don't bother, it's fine. Mostly fine." They followed as Sherlock stomped up the stairs and threw open the door of 221b. 

"Oh!" said Mycroft, looking surprised. He set down the teacup he'd liberated and pulled an envelope out of his jacket, "The gang's all here? Well I suppose it's a good thing I brought this, then."


	4. Barely Civil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's an eventful evening for the Holmes brothers, as Sherlock gets married and Mycroft gets pwned. Then, a plot starts up!

Sherlock strode forward and snatched the envelope from his brother's hand, wordlessly spinning into his chair to flip it open and read its contents thoroughly. It seemed rude, but Mycroft only smiled, an indulgent look briefly flashing through his features - anyone who understood how Sherlock had been forcibly separated from the man he loved by a jealous maniac would understand why he would be so eager to get on with it. 

Nevertheless, John sighed - certain protocols were called for. "Have either of you met Mycroft? He's Sherlock's brother. This is Greg Lestrade, detective inspector with New Scotland Yard, and Molly Hooper, pathologist with the Barts morgue."

"A pleasure," Mycroft said formally, shaking hands. "And a delight to see you again, Miss Hooper. I owe you much for saving the lives of my brother and his friends."

"Oh...! Um... It was.. it was nothing... um..." Molly stammered and blushed, not knowing how to answer to that. 

Sherlock's pen scratched with a flourish and he looked up to pass the papers to John. "John, you're bleeding!" and he shot up out of his chair to get John's kit. 

"It's nothing," John sighed, "Just got scratched by some shattering brickwork."

"You're not just scratched, John, some of it is embedded," Sherlock said, pulling John's jumper off and tugging his shirt down to inspect the area. "You said you had an altercation?"

Lestrade nodded, "We were targetted by a sniper, probably your man but we've got some DNA samples and will confirm. Brought some for you too, by the by." He laid the second evidence bag on the coffee table. "Shots were fired. We weren't hit but can't say the same for some of the brickwork. One must've come pretty close to John to embed shrapnel like that." 

Sherlock frowned as he swabbed antiseptic over John's skin then sprayed a topical anaesthetic. "Where did this happen?" Mycroft asked, taking out his phone. 

"A few blocks from here. I've sent a team 'round." For some reason, that didn't seem to sit well with Mycroft. However, his expression cleared when John told him the exact address, which he punched into his phone. Sherlock flicked his eyes at his brother for the briefest of moments, but said nothing. 

"The boys definitely know where he is, Sherlock," John told him, not even flinching as Sherlock dug the forceps into his flesh to pull out shards of brick, "They were like a homing beacon. I could tell the sniper's exact position by the way the rats reacted."

"Rats? What rats?" Mycroft looked like he was praying the answer wasn't what he was thinking, given the very large cage nearby, full of wheels, bedding, toys and fleece hammocks suspended from every available surface.

"These rats!" Lestrade said, pulling the cuddle pouch off of John. Two whiskery heads popped up to see what was going on. "These are Steve and Anthony!"

"Sherlock's fostering them for our animal shelter," Molly added. 

"You **must** be joking."

It was the second time in his life where everyone was staring at Mycroft like _he_ was the one who was off his nut. "No," John said evenly, "We're fostering them. They're up for adoption."

_**"Rats?**_ For heaven's sake, Sherlock! If you had to have a pet, why not a dog?"

"Dogs don't design their environment in the event of a water bottle flood," Sherlock said. 

"Is **that** what they were doing?" Greg was immediately interested, "We saw them pushing the bedding around and stacking blocks around the bottle like a dyke."

Sherlock brightened, "That's exactly what it was! Go and look, see how they've elevated the nest and food and separated their latrine area, so if the bottle floods, it won't contaminate the food."

Molly stared at Mycroft for a moment, then looked away and pulled some brightly coloured squares of fleece from her purse, "I made some new hammocks for them!" The hammocks were duly hung into the cage, with much debate over the best place to hang them, since Steve liked to climb along the ceiling to one then fling himself in. John watched, smiling indulgently, but even more amused by Mycroft, whose expression clearly stated that he believed himself to be the only sane person in the room. 

"There ya go, lads!" Greg crowed as he pulled each rat from their cuddle pouch, gave them a quick snug then put them into the cage, "Brand new hammocks to tear into! Best reward, yeah? Have you got raisins? They deserve raisins, after tonight."

"Third cupboard, middle shelf, next to the fingers," Sherlock muttered. 

Molly came back with the raisins. "The solution's starting to go cloudy. Shall I bring you some fresh? I've got a batch from an industrial accident last week," she said, the only other person in the world who wasn't put out by a jar of pickled fingers in the kitchen cupboard, "Oh, and Mr. Stephenson's left his body to you in his will."

Sherlock sat up, looking astonished, "He has??"

"Ta, mate," John said, rolling his shoulder and neck, "Much better. So why'd he do that, then?"

"Well.. You know how medical students would sometimes... leave a cadaver in the lecture hall for someone to find?" she explained hesitantly, "As a prank? Well, he wants to **be** that cadaver. And he wanted his body to go to science but he gets such a charge out of hearing about Sherlock's experiments, he figures that's the fun place to be." John was nodding and chuckling. 

"Huh! That was nice of him," Sherlock said, and the whole room broke up in laughter (except for Mycroft, who rolled his eyes.) 

John flexed his arm a few times then reached for the papers, "Right... Where do I sign?" He scribbled his name then passed the papers up to Mycroft, while Greg and Molly applauded. "No applause, please, just throw money and pickled fingers," he joked. Sherlock smiled at him but the expression in his eyes told everyone in the room why they hadn't wanted to make this a public spectacle. 

The kiss was so tender, they could hardly bear to watch. 

That is, until John dragged Sherlock down and across his lap to snog the hell out of him, purely to troll Mycroft. It worked. 

After the laughter had died down, Lestrade turned to Mycroft and inquired politely, "So, you work in the Registrar's office, then?"

"I occupy a minor position with the British government," Mycroft repeated his standard speech, "But I have sufficient authority to register a civil partnership."

The detective inspector's eyes narrowed a bit and his smile froze ever so slightly. "Ah, I see," he said, still polite. 

Molly, however, was staring at him with her patented "I can't believe you just said that" expression. She looked away, shaking her head and murmuring, "I guess Sherlock's actually the nice one."

But Mycroft had incredibly sharp hearing. "I beg your pardon, Miss Hooper?"

"At least Sherlock is honest about who he thinks is stupid," Molly spat out, "You think we're complete morons." Sherlock's eyes flicked from Molly to John then back to Molly. 

Mycroft kept his carefully composed expression, "Why do you say that?"

"You actually think we'd believe such an obvious lie!" she flared, "You're sitting there in a suit that costs more than my rent but people in 'minor positions in the government' can just about afford to take the Tube to work and wear a suit from Marks and Sparks. But you haven't bothered to research that because you think everyone is too stupid to notice, you think we should be blinded by 'ooo, he works for the government.' Honestly! Sherlock at his **worst** doesn't show even half as much contempt for people as you do just introducing yourself!" The flat was absolutely silent and John wished he dared snap a picture of Mycroft's thunderstruck face. Molly dropped her gaze, suddenly embarrassed by her outburst. "I... I have to go," she stammered. She reached for her coat then leaned over to Sherlock and kissed his cheek, whispering something, and he murmured something back that made her smile. 

"Yup, same," Lestrade said. He flashed a grin, "'Grats, mates. And John? - Always interesting."

"Yes, he is," Sherlock agreed, and Lestrade flashed a grin at him too. 

The door slammed and the footsteps faded, and quiet was broken only by the crackle and snap of the fireplace. Mycroft _still_ hadn't said anything. "And she doesn't witter, either," Sherlock chuckled. Mycroft shot him a death look. 

"Possibly one of the quietest women I've ever met," John chimed in, "Unless she has something to say, of course."

"Mm, yes. I've found that when she does speak, it's often worth listening to." 

"I believe the word is 'owned.'"

"Yes, alright," Mycroft grated out.

Sherlock looked up and took a moment to savour his brother's tight expression. It wasn't often he got to see Mycroft taken down a peg, certainly not by someone as unexpected as Molly Hooper. "Now that that's over with, what did you come by for?" At John's puzzled look, he explained, "It was a coincidence that Molly and Lestrade should be here at the same time and when we came in, he said it was a good thing he had brought the papers with him, so clearly that wasn't his original purpose in being here."

"Indeed not," Mycroft said, trying not to appear like a person grasping desperately at a subject change in a vain attempt to recover his dignity. "You'll recall Lord and Lady Trelawny Hope, of course?"

"Of course. How is the Foreign Secretary? Left another barn door open, has he?"

"In a manner of speaking," Mycroft replied, "He's dead."

"Dead?" John repeated, surprised, "How? When?"

"He and his wife were found shot in their estate home of Riding Thorpe Manor in North Walsham," Mycroft explained, "He is dead and she is barely alive, in a coma."

John and Sherlock looked at each other. "How long ago was this?" John asked. 

"Some time during the night, so it appears. I was notified shortly before I came here. Unfortunately, a call had already gone to the local police. It appears to have been a murder-suicide."

"He killed his wife then shot himself? Why?"

"Other way around. According to the servants, she shot him, then herself."

"That makes even less sense," John said, looking at Sherlock, who nodded, looking at his phone. 

"Precisely. I expect you'll find things are hardly as they're meant to appear."

John nodded, "Given Lady Trelawny Hope's past ties, it was probably an assassination."

"Exactly, and since this is the Foreign Secretary, this is going to become public very quickly, which is why I'm here. I'd like it dealt with as quickly as possible. These will ensure you have minimal interference from the local law enforcement," Mycroft passed over a pair of government issue ID passes. 

John took them with another glance at Sherlock, half expecting him to dismiss the case as uninteresting, given his distaste for acting as his brother's footsoldier, but the dark-haired detective was still staring at his phone. "First thing in the morning, yeah?"

Mycroft nodded urbanely, "Of course. I'll have a car hired out and waiting for you." With that, he texted his driver then collected his coat and umbrella. "I'll register this immediately," he said, tapping the papers, then he looked up with one of his rare, genuine smiles, "Congratulations, both of you." He rested a hand briefly on Sherlock's shoulder, who flicked his eyes up at his brother with the ghost of a smile, then took his leave.


	5. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John manipulates Sherlock, sneakily and schmoopily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a bit of schmoop before I start fiddling with the ACD canon again. Because I felt like it :-P

"Alright," John said, "What has you bothered?"

Sherlock sighed and turned his phone, "We've become lax about checking that Twitter."

John's face fell slowly as he saw the animated gif dancing on the screen. "So we might have prevented this..." They'd been busy but... He shook his head, knowing that no amount of excuses would make either of them feel absolved. He passed a hand down his face and sighed then held his hand out towards Sherlock, "Come on, let's go to bed. And no excuses about 'you're on a case', it's not a case yet, you don't have any data." That was enough to make Sherlock smile and he followed John to their room. 

"What were you and Lestrade doing?" he asked as they undressed. 

"Greg's idea of a bachelor party," John chuckled, "We just went to the pub, that's all. Just the two of us, had a few pints and some chit-chat."

"That's an odd definition of a party. By that definition, it's a party 'round here every day."

"That's right," John smiled, peeling the sheets back and sliding between them, "And I'm a party animal."

Sherlock pulled his t-shirt on and slid in next to John, "Hm. Never did like parties much."

"But you like them with me." John put his arm around Sherlock and drew him onto his chest.

"True. What did you talk about?"

"You, of course - it's a bachelor party."

"I thought bachelor parties were about getting piss drunk, girls jumping out of cakes, and generally trying to forget that one is about to be married."

"Hm, true. Alright, it's **my** bachelor party, which was about _not_ getting piss drunk, chatting with a friend about the bloke I was about to marry, and getting shot at by a sniper."

"Your parties are so much less boring." John giggled and Sherlock smiled, snuggling against him and inhaling his scent. John kept giggling. "What?"

"Mycroft's face," John giggled into Sherlock's hair, "When Molly called him out."

"Oh god, **_yes!_** " Sherlock's face split into a wide grin, " _That_ is getting framed and put above the mantel in my memory palace. I am never _ever_ deleting that!" They both dissolved in giggles. "How's your neck?"

"Better, thanks. You've gotten much better with the forceps."

"I had a good teacher," Sherlock smiled up at John.

John smiled back, lost in the ice blue eyes. "Still hasn't sunk in yet," he murmured, "How long do you think until it's registered?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Pht, he probably registered it in the car. He'll be insufferable now."

"He's always insufferable."

"I mean mother-hen insufferable."

"Well, his baby brother just got married," John pointed out, but conceded, "I know, he was practically clicking his heels on the way out." That mental image made them both dissolve in laughter. "When'll we get the rings done?"

"After the case. Is that alright?"

"Yes. The important part is done."

"Yes," Sherlock said significantly, then he looked up at John, "You were shot at, today. You could have been killed."

"But I wasn't."

"I didn't go through all of that just for Colonel Moran to kill you, John. It was to keep you safe."

"I know," John reached to cup Sherlock's cheek, stroking his thumb over the sharp cheekbone, "You and me against the world, though, right?"

Sherlock had to smile - to think John actually thought he was _normal._ "You were shot at, close enough to bury shrapnel in your skin, and you're acting like you just got a little sliver, like it was the most ordinary thing in the world," he said, "I'm pretty certain normal people would be quite put off by that, John."

"Actually... yeah, you're probably right about that," John sighed and nodded. Then he tipped his head with a little sly look, "You keep telling me you're not normal; what does it do for you? .... _oh._ "

* * * *

Morning found John in the kitchen, making an almighty racket. 

**_"John!"_** Sherlock wailed, coming out still buttoning his shirt, "What on earth are you doing?"

John smirked, pouring thick liquid into a glass, "Making you some breakfast."

Sherlock screwed up his features in an expression of disgust, "You know I don't eat on a case! We don't have time for breakfast, John, I want to get to the crime scene before the local police muck it up too much."

"You don't have any data so it's not a case yet," John repeated his earlier argument, "I know you want to be on your way which is why I made you a smoothie. Now drink up."

Sherlock eyed the offered glass and sniffed it like he was expecting a fish milkshake. "Digesting is tedious and distracting."

"It's a smoothie. You drink it. It has all the protien and vitamins of a complete meal in a form that you'll digest without even being aware of it."

"Highly unlikely."

"Sherlock Holmes, you drink your damned breakfast or I'm letting the air out of that car's tyres!"

"There's no need to get peevish, John," Sherlock muttered. He set the empty glass back down, "Can we go now?"

"You didn't have to chug it," John rolled his eyes, reaching for his jacket.


	6. The Vanished Assassin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson journey to investigate the deaths of Lord and Lady Trelawny Hope, only to encounter another layer of mystery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> playing fast and loose with the ACD canon

Sherlock spent the entire drive brooding in silence. He seemed uneasy during all the journey from the city, as though the realization of his worst fears left him in a blank melancholy. He leaned back in his seat, lost in gloomy speculation. John, on the other hand, was quite interested as they drove, as they were passing through as picturesque a countryside as any in England. At last the violet rim of the North Sea appeared over the green edge of the Norfolk coast, and the driver pointed to two old brick and timber gables which projected from a grove of trees. "That's Riding Thorpe Manor," he said.

As they drove up to the porticoed front door, a dapper little man, with a quick, alert manner and a trimmed moustache, stepped out of a police car. He introduced himself as Inspector Martin, of the Norfolk Constabulary, and he was considerably astonished when John introduced himself and his companion.

"Why, Mr. Holmes, the crime was only just committed. How could you hear of it in London so quickly?"

Sherlock showed his ID card, "The British government asked me to investigate. Will you associate me in your investigation, or will you prefer that I act independently?"

"I should be proud to feel that we were acting together, Mr. Holmes," said the inspector, earnestly.

"In that case I should be glad to hear the evidence and to examine the premises without further delay."

Inspector Martin had the good sense to allow Sherlock to do things in his own fashion, and contented himself with carefully noting the results. The local surgeon, an old, white-haired man, had just come down from Lady Trelawny Hope's room, and he reported that her injuries were serious, but not necessarily fatal. The bullet had passed through the front of her brain but between the lobes, and it would probably be some time before she could regain consciousness, if ever. On the question of whether she had been shot or had shot herself, he would not offer a decided opinion. Certainly the bullet had been discharged at very close quarters. There was only the one pistol found in the room, two barrels of which had been emptied. Lord Trelawny Hope had been shot through the heart. It was equally conceivable that he had shot her and then himself, or that she had been the criminal, for the pistol lay upon the floor midway between them.

"Has he been moved?" asked Sherlock.

"We have moved nothing except the lady. We could not leave her lying wounded on the floor."

"How long have you been here, Doctor?"

"Since four o'clock."

"Anyone else?"

"Yes, the constable here."

"And you have touched nothing?"

"Nothing."

Sherlock huffed, grudgingly impressed, "You have acted with great discretion. Who sent for you?"

"The housemaid, Saunders."

"Was it she who called it in?"

"She and Mrs. King, the cook."

"Where are they now?"

"In the kitchen, I believe."

"Then I think we had better hear their story at once."

The old hall, oak-panelled and high-windowed, had been turned into a court of investigation. Sherlock sat in a great, old-fashioned chair, his sharp eyes gleaming over his tented fingers. The trim Inspector Martin, the old, gray-headed country doctor, Doctor Watson, and a stolid village policeman made up the rest of that strange company.

The two women told their story clearly enough. They had been abruptly woken up by the sound of an explosion, which had been followed a minute later by a second one. They slept in adjoining rooms, and Mrs. King had rushed in to Saunders. Together they had descended the stairs. The door of the study was open, and an aromatherapy candle was burning upon the table. Their employer lay upon his face in the centre of the room, quite dead. Near the window his wife was crouching, her head leaning against the wall. She was horribly wounded and the side of her face was red with blood. She breathed heavily but was incapable of speech and unresponsive. She was clad in nightdress, he in his dressing-gown, over pyjama pants. Nothing had been moved in the study. The passage, as well as the room, was full of smoke and the smell of gunpowder. The window was certainly shut and fastened from the inside; both women were positive upon the point. They had at once sent for the doctor and for the police. So far as they knew, there had never been any quarrel between husband and wife. They had looked upon them as a very united couple.

Those were the main points of the servants' evidence. In answer to Inspector Martin, they were clear that every door was fastened on the inside and that no one could have escaped from the house. In answer to Sherlock, they both remembered that they smelled gunpowder from the moment that they ran out of their rooms on the top floor. "Take note of that fact," said Sherlock to the inspector, "And now I think that we should do a thorough examination of the room."

The study was a small room, lined on three sides with books, and with a desk facing an ordinary window, which looked out upon the garden. They first looked over the body of the unfortunate lord, whose huge frame lay stretched across the room. His disordered dress showed that he had been hastily aroused from sleep. The bullet had been fired at him from the front and had remained in his body after penetrating the heart. John offered that his death had been instantaneous and painless. There was no powder-marking either on his dressing-gown or on his hands. According to the country doctor, the lady had stains on her face, but none on her hand.

Sherlock straighened up and looked at him, "I suppose you haven't recovered the bullet which wounded the lady?"

"A serious operation will be necessary before that can be done. But there are still four cartridges in the revolver. Two have been fired and two wounds inflicted, so that each bullet can be accounted for."

Sherlock snorted, "Perhaps you can account also for the bullet which has so obviously struck the edge of the window?"

The inspector stared where he was pointing and felt a blush crawling up his face. "Now why didn't my people see that? How did you see it?"

"They weren't looking for it; I was."

"Then a third shot has been fired," said Inspector Martin, "And therefore a third person must have been present. But who could that have been, and how could he have got away?"

"You remember, when the servants said that, on leaving their room, they smelled gunpowder and I remarked that the point was an extremely important one?"

"Yes, sir, but I confess I did not quite follow you."

"It suggested that at the time of the firing, the window as well as the door of the room had been open. Otherwise the fumes of powder could not have been blown so rapidly through the house. A draught in the room was necessary for that. Both door and window were only open for a very short time, however."

"How do you prove that?"

"Because the candle was not guttered."

"Capital!" cried the inspector.

"Since the window most likely had been open at the time of the shooting, a third person might have stood outside this opening and fired through it. Any shot directed at this person might hit the sash. I looked and sure enough, there was the bullet mark."

"But how was the window shut and fastened?"

"The woman's instinct was to shut it to secure safety."

"Seems a bit late for that."

"Well, she'd been shot through the head," Doctor Watson offered his professional opinion as a war veteran, "She might not have been thinking clearly at the time."

Sherlock smirked at him then turned back to the inspector, "We should try to throw some light upon this third bullet, which was fired from inside the room, by the splintering of the wood. I should like to see Mrs. King, again." As they waited for Inspector Martin to bring the cook, he murmured to John, "And you say I'm too sarcastic? What was that, then?"

"Yes alright, sometimes I agree with you, that's all."

Sherlock smiled at him then turned as the cook entered the room, "You said, Mrs. King, that you were awakened by a loud explosion. When you said that, did you mean that it seemed to you to be louder than the second one?"

"Well, yes sir, it wakened me from my sleep, so it is hard to judge. But it did seem very loud."

"Could it have been two shots fired almost at the same instant?"

"I'm not sure, sir. Possibly."

Sherlock turned back towards Inspector Martin, "I'd like to see what evidence the garden has to offer."

A flower-bed extended up to the study window. The flowers were trampled down, and the soft soil was imprinted all over with footprints. They were large, masculine feet with peculiarly long, sharp toes. Doctor Watson squatted down for a closer look as Sherlock hunted about among the grass and leaves like a retriever after a wounded bird. Then, with a cry of frustration, he threw up his arms and said, "So where did he **go**?"

"Sherlock," John called over his shoulder. He had his phone out and was snapping some pictures of the footprints in the flower bed, "Come here and have a closer look at this, will you?"

"He shoots from the flower bed," Sherlock complained as he strode back, "He runs to the fence then he just disappears! There's nothing there, John! No tyre tracks, no footprints, nothing! What did he do, fly?" He spun about and asked Inspector Martin, "Did they hear any helicopters last night?"

"Sherlock..."

"Yes, yes, John, what is it?"

"These footprints, I've seen them before. Look.." He thumbed through his phone's gallery to a picture taken at night on a fire escape landing. "It's the same bloke who shot at Greg and I."


	7. Method of Loci

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unable to explain the disappearance of the assassin, Sherlock is forced to turn to the one place that might hold the answer -- Mycroft's mind palace.

"It's the same shooter," John said decisively, staring down at the footprints, "It's the same man who shot at Greg and I. These footprints are the same, I'm sure of it." Sherlock leaned over his shoulder, looking from the flower bed to the photographs, frowning. 

"He got from here to London pretty quickly. But how did he leave **here**?"

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes, no helicopters," Inspector Martin returned, "What were you saying about London?"

"It fits with the time frame," Sherlock said, thinking about it, "Our informant _did_ indicate there was a delay in notifying him, and apparently quite a bit longer than originally thought. The shooter could quite easily have returned to London... but he had to leave **here** first! But there's nothing!" He strode forward again, following the tracks, "Look, he runs along here, races along this fence, hops it here... then what? There are no tyre marks from a car or lorry and no further footprints, so if he wasn't picked up in a helicopter, where did he go?"

"You're right, Mr. Holmes," Inspector Martin said, scanning the grass, "Here's where he enters the property. You can see his footprints here, moving towards the house, but it's exactly as you say, there's nothing to indicate how he arrived. It's as though his existance begins and ends at the fence."

"No tyre tracks, no footprints, no bicycle tracks, no horse prints. There's nothing here but cow tracks. A helicopter would certainly have been audible from the manor and would have had to have stayed active during the shooting but the staff say they didn't hear one. So how did the assassin get on and off the property?" Sherlock tugged his hair in frustration, pacing in elongated circles. 

John looked around at the fields surrounding them. "Wonder where the cattle are?"

"What?"

John nodded towards the tracks in the mud, "Well, there looks to be a lot of tracks, but I don't see any cattle, do you?" Sherlock stopped and stared at him, then looked around at fields, dotted with a few sheep but indeed, empty of bovine specimens. He crouched down on his heels and stared at the tracks. "Something wrong?"

Sherlock pulled out his phone and started taking pictures, "These tracks are all the same. There's no variations in the hoofprints." Finally he looked up at John, looking slightly embarrassed. "...Do cattle canter?"

"Nnnnot that I'm aware of, but I'm not an expert."

Sherlock straightened up and pocketed his phone, looking very put out. 

The next day, he was even more put out. He stomped around the flat, span into his chair and sulked then span up again. "I can't figure it out, John," he snapped, when John had finally had enough.

"So what are you going to do about it, then?" Sherlock threw his book against the wall. "Sherlock!"

Then Sherlock answered, and John immediately understood, because it was the very **last** thing that Sherlock would ever want to do.  "I'll have to ask Mycroft."

* * * * 

It was a clear and quiet night. A fire burned in the grate in the sitting room of the big estate house that was much, much too large to house one single person. The Tiffany lamp sat in the window, casting its indigo rays out into the night as it had done for fifteen years since their mother had disappeared. He had lit it on the day he'd inherited their family home, and it would continue to shine as long as he was alive, a silent beacon to a vain hope. Sherlock hated it, but he never, ever suggested that it be extinguished. 

Sherlock was uncomfortable here, not just because of Mycroft. John sat beside him, quietly looking around at the accumulations of generations of Holmeses, working out which belonged to their immediate family. It was the first time he'd really seen their childhood home. He glanced around at the bookshelves and mantlepiece, while Sherlock showed Mycroft the pictures of the cow prints and explained the problem. Mycroft frowned, looking just as perplexed. He sat back in his wing chair, tenting his fingers and unconsciously resembling his little brother. "It seems familiar," he said at last, "I'm sure I've seen something like that before, but where...?" He thought for a few moments, then made a frustrated noise and closed his eyes. Sherlock went absolutely still. Seeing it, John stilled as well, as best he could. He waited, watching, and when Mycroft's fingertip twitched in a gesture of dismissal, he followed Sherlock out. 

He hadn't understood until he'd tried it himself a few times, why Sherlock chased people out when he needed to go deeply in thought. However quiet people tried to be, they just couldn't manage it: They shifted and shuffled, sniffed, cleared their throats, looked for things to read and turned pages, gurgled, got up to walk around and make tea. Irregular sounds that turned out to be terribly distracting when John was trying to focus on his inner world, and he'd found himself snapping at people a few times. After that, he'd stopped taking it personally when Sherlock told him to leave. Instead, he turned to Sherlock and asked quietly, "Will you show me the rest of the house?"

* * * *

_He heard the sounds of Sherlock and John getting up and quietly leaving the room, leaving him with only the sounds and smells of the fireplace and the ticking of the clock. He could picture the room as clearly as if his eyes had been open, but the contents of the shelves had changed. Besides, this was the sitting room, where he kept things to do with leisure and comfort. He needed to go to the library._

_He stepped out into the empty hallway and walked swiftly down the corridor, passing the kitchen where he kept his recipes, passing the music room where he kept everything to do with music and dance, passing the drawing room where everything arts-related was kept. He passed the boot room where he kept short-term items, noting that it still held the list of documents he'd needed to email his associates. He climbed the stairs and passed Sherlock's room, housing everything Sherlock-related and noted that a new room had appeared beside it, one that didn't exist in the real house's architecture. Previously, it had been one of the guest rooms but Sherlock's change in status had promoted John's room to the family level - amazing what his mind would do, when he wasn't even aware of it. He strode down the corridor, past his own room with its collection of education memories. He stopped by a set of double doors and pushed them open to step into the library._

_The cat turned and looked at him, blinking lazily. He wasn't sure why his subconscious presented itself as a cat, but arguing about it was useless. He looked around at the library shelves stretching off, filling a space much larger than the real library, not sure where to begin. He looked at the cat, "Cattle hoofprints, all identical, in cantering patterns as if a horse had made them. Why is it familiar? Where have I seen it before?"_

_The cat yawned and stretched then hopped down off of its old velvet chair with a distinctly disgruntled air at having been disturbed. He followed it as it walked down row after row of shelves, turning this way and that in a way that the real library didn't. He noticed that the cat was leading him into medieval history and the sensation of nagging familiarity grew stronger. The cat stopped and jumped up several shelves then pawed at a book until it fell off the shelf and landed, open. He picked it up and looked at it._

_The book was not written in words, but in images. Images of poachers of the Middle Ages, riding horses shod with unusual shoes shaped to leave a cow's print, to fool the landowners. He turned a page and saw an image of such a shoe and felt another hard tug of memory - where had he seen shoes like that?_

_Abruptly, he was standing not in the library, but in the stables. Long disused in reality, here they still contained the relics of his childhood. He stood near the old forge, looking up as Grandfather Holmes explained how shoes were made and put on the horse, turning to follow his gestures as he explained about the different kinds of shoes. Then he pulled an odd-looking shoe off a nail sticking out of a post five stalls down from the forge..._

Mycroft's eyes snapped open, blinking as the vivid memories were replaced by the reality of the sitting room. He stood up and walked out, grabbing a torch from the boot room and heading out into the darkness towards the stables. 

* * * *

They'd toured through the kitchen, the guest rooms, and the dining room, where John had stared at the giant chess pieces dominating the room. In the drawing room, his attention had been drawn to the portrait between the windows. At first, he thought it was Mycroft, then he realised the darker hair and subtle differences. "Our father, Sigurd Holmes," Sherlock had said, "Mycroft takes after him."

"Definitely," John said faintly. The stern expression, the tight jaw and thin lips, the hard eyes and wide forehead - the resemblance was more than merely facial features. Mycroft was the world's worst control freak but, staring at the portrait, John suspected that he had been merely second-worst until his father had died. As they turned to leave, John noticed that the eyes of the portrait appeared to follow him - unnerving, yet somehow he wasn't surprised.

There was a different portrait in Mycroft's study, this one of a woman with a sullen expression. Her face was long, with sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes, almond shaped eyes that John was only too familiar with. Those eyes looked out of Sherlock's head, even as her pale ginger hair graced Mycroft's head (however minimally nowadays.) "Our mother, Atalanta," Sherlock said softly, still a hint of sadness in his tone. 

John stared at the image. The woman's eyes crackled with intelligence along with an aura of distance. As Sigurd was to Mycroft, Atalanta clearly was to Sherlock. "She's beautiful," John said. Sherlock said nothing, but it was another moment before he turned away and led John up to the second floor. 

Mycroft's room had been turned into a guest room after he'd taken over the master suite. Sherlock led them down the hall past another door, firmly closed. John suspected he knew what lay behind it, especially when he saw Sherlock's jaw tighten. He swept past the closed door and proceeded to another. The door swung open, revealing what had been the children's nursery and was now a comfortable family room. 

Not exactly as he'd left it - there were rather more pictures of Sherlock and his family collected here than when he'd fledged the nest. He picked up a photograph and snorted, "Mycroft put these here -- so much for sentiment."

John chuckled, looking at the picture of a nine year old boy with ginger hair, cuddling a toddling child with white-blond, almost transluscent hair. "Is that you? At what age did you go dark?"

"Hm? Around five," Sherlock replied, picking up another picture - this one showed a seven year old boy with the more familiar black hair and an unfamiliar bright smile.

John looked around. There were a lot of pictures of Sherlock, and a lot of pictures of Mycroft with Sherlock. It was clear that the boys had once been strongly bonded, their love for each other readily apparent through the photographs. What had happened to turn them against one another? There were pictures of both boys with their mother, and with another woman that John assumed to be their nanny. There were no pictures of them with their father. "Was your dad not much involved with you, then?"

"Our father was very much involved with us."

 _Ah,_ John thought knowingly. He was starting to understand. "So only as the hand of discipline, then," he speculated, "Not as the bloke who helped you with your homework or played ball with you."

"That's what Mrs. Nesbitt was for," Sherlock sniffed, "I never played ball." But he was giving John an interested look.

"And your mum was warned to keep away from you," John remembered, "You had to sneak your time with her. That's why most of these look candid and there's only one of you in the picture - the other one had the camera." He glanced at Sherlock, who was smiling enigmatically. "Is this Mrs. Nesbitt?"

"Yes."

"Mycroft didn't like her."

"No."

"Is this Mycroft?"

"Yes." 

John gazed at the faded picture of the toddling little boy with bright strawberry hair, big blue eyes, and a wide happy smile, standing on tip toes and carrying a plastic umbrella printed with ducks. "The umbrella thing started early, didn't it."

"I believe it's what Rae calls a core interest."

John nodded then realised what he hadn't seen. "No family portraits, anywhere. Only pictures of the individual members of the family, or in pairs - you and Mycroft, you and your Mum, Mycroft and your Mum. Only the one portrait of your father, no photographs of him, and none of the entire family." He looked at Sherlock, "Were any ever taken?"

"A few, yes. I believe there were only two formal family portraits ever made. They weren't at all attractive."

"Not a happy family," John said, nodding. Then he turned to look at another shelf, "Oh!"

Sherlock chuckled, "You're surprised? Why?"

John picked up the picture of himself and Sherlock, "Mainly by how early this is. It looks like it was a little after the pool incident; I bought that jumper as a replacement but lost it a few months later when some well-meaning sod tried to do the laundry." He smiled affectionately at Sherlock, who shrugged. "But what's really surprising is it looks like it was lifted off a CCTV camera, which is just flat-out creepy."

"Won't hear me arguing," Sherlock smiled back. 

"Ah, there you are!" They turned to see Mycroft standing in the door, dusty and slightly cobwebbed, beaming. "I knew it was familiar! Grandpa Holmes showed me these when I was little, before you were born." He held out a metal object.

Sherlock stepped forward to examine it, "It looks like... it looks like it could be a horse shoe, but what are these projections? Oh, they look like a cow's hoof?"

"That's exactly what they are," Mycroft agreed, "Horseshoes that leave cattle prints. Our ancestors used them when they were poaching from other estates." He looked at John and smiled, "The Holmeses weren't really very nice people."

"Good job you two are," John quipped, making Sherlock grin. 

"So he used a horse to get to and from the estate, shod with shoes like these," Sherlock surmised, "Then he got back to London and somehow came across John and Lestrade as they were returning from the pub. Now was that by chance or was that planned somehow?" He looked at his brother, "The shooting took place quite a bit differently than you were told."

"I see. Unacceptable. I shall have to look into that."

"And we should look into that fire escape, Sherlock," John interjected, "Lestrade and I, we thought he was stalking one of us, but if this bloke had just come back from Norfolk, then it might have been chance. And if it was chance..."

"What was he doing on that fire escape?" Sherlock finished, "What was in the adjascent flat?"

"Where did he get cow shoes?" Mycroft offered, "Ours are accounted for, I just checked. As I recall, they're not that common."

John shook his head and looked at Sherlock, "We'd better talk to Lestrade about this. We might need a warrant."


	8. The Black Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anderson is an idiot, Driscoe gets a confidence boost, John impresses Sherlock and Sherlock impresses John.

His was a dark and sorry plight. He sat in the questioning room, utterly defeated, while Anderson and his team mates congratulated each other on a job well done. Except for one voice, which was crying, "But it doesn't make sense!" 

Finally Anderson turned around, "And exactly what part of it doesn't make sense, Miss Driscoe?" He watched her struggle to compose a sentence and broke in before her words had lined up, "You see? We have everything we need. We have our man's motive, we have his method and we have him revisiting the scene of the crime, right in the middle of our stake-out and we caught him, neat as a pin." He draped an arm around her shoulder, oblivious to how she stiffened up and glared at him, "TDC Thomson was right, Miss Driscoe. But you're clever; if you stick with us, you'll soon learn how to see things properly." He went to clap her on the shoulder and she twisted out of his grasp. "Go get us some tea, will you, Driscoe, there's a lass..."

_And you're an ass,_ Driscoe thought, fuming. She cast one more look through the observation window, at the morose prisoner, then whirled around and went to the break room to get some tea and collect her thoughts. Footsteps passed by the break room door - she recognised the first set as the staff sergeant but didn't recognise the other two, _Probably visitors._ She sipped her tea, leg jittering in her anger. Then one set of footsteps walked backwards and stopped, and she looked up. 

"I know that face." There was a tall man in a black coat and black fluffy curls, gazing down at her with an expression of mild intrigue, "That's the 'I know they've got it wrong but no one's listening' face." His lip twitched into a faint half-smile of irony, "I'm quite familiar with that face."

She sat up a little straighter, "It's... Mr. Holmes, right? Inspector Lestrade introduced us?"

"Yes. And you are TDC Driscoe, who spotted that that carpet had been reversed, because you smelled blood in two different places. In a room that reeked of blood, you being able to isolate two origin points indicates you have very keen senses, _and_ the sense to trust them." He sat down across from her, "What's wrong?"

"It's this new murder case, sir," Driscoe sighed, "Have you heard about it? Peter Milverton Carey?"

"Alias Black Peter, the blackmailer," Sherlock's face twisted in an expression of disgust, "Practically the king of all the blackmailers, he's elevated it into an art form. Heaven help the person whose secret and reputation come into the power of Black Peter, he'll squeeze and squeeze until he has drained them dry. The fellow is a genius in his way and would have made his mark in some more savoury trade."

"All true except past tense now," Driscoe nodded, "He's dead. Run through with a spike, right through him and embedded into the wall behind him." 

Sherlock's eyebrows rose with interest. "Really? That's no small feat of strength."

Driscoe nodded emphatically, "That's what I thought, sir. But while they were staking out the place, this Neligan chap walked right in, looking for his notebook they'd found at the scene."

"How convenient."

"That's just it, sir!" Driscoe burst out, "It's too.... pat! It's too easy. And besides, the bloke is... Well, he's too small, sir. Begging your pardon, sir, but he's thinner than you."

"I'm stronger than I look," Sherlock smiled, unoffended, "But **I** can't even put a large harpoon through a pig carcass." At Driscoe's puzzled look, he explained, "I once had something similar on a case, a fellow skewered on a harpoon."

"But.. a pig carcass?"

"If you wish to verify a hypothesis, you have to test it," Sherlock shrugged, "Why were they staking out?"

"TDC Thomson spotted signs that the locks and windows had been tampered with after the initial investigation. He suggested that the perpetrator might have been trying to retrieve something and might come back again with a better break-in device."

"Was Anderson heading up the investigation?"

"No, sir, it's Detective Inspector Trevor, but Sergeant Anderson is involved. How did you..."

"The stench of idiocy clings to you but is obviously not emanating **from** you. He put his arm around you, unwelcome and uninvited, I see. Did you punch him?"

"Not allowed to strike a superior officer, sir," Driscoe demurred.

"I didn't ask if you struck a superior officer, I asked if you struck Anderson." He grinned and she laughed, the tension breaking. "Ah, Lestrade! Will you let me have a look at the Black Peter case details? TDC Driscoe here believes she has spotted a few flaws in the logic and I believe she may be correct. Let me look at the evidence for ten minutes? I shall need your office."

"My office?"

"Well, any office, really," Sherlock shrugged and followed him out. Ten minutes later, after looking at the evidence, he called John in. Then he released John and called in Lestrade. And then, he called in Trainee Detective Constable Driscoe. He was sitting at Lestrade's desk with the evidence photographs spread before him. He looked up at her and smiled, "Now then, TDC Driscoe - look at the evidence and tell me what questions arise from it." She hesitated. "You were off to a good start," he told her, "What was the first obvious question?"

"How did such a skinny twig of a fellow ram a spike right through a heavy bloke like Peter Carey and embed it in the wall like that?"

Sherlock made a mark on a paper in front of him, "Good. Go on."

"Why did Neligan show up right when the team were staking out? He says he went to retrieve some file logs that Black Peter was holding over him, about his father's financial activities. He says his notebook had disappeared from his hotel room and he thought he had mislaid it."

"Which could indicate...?"

"...That, maybe he was set up?" Sherlock smiled and ticked his paper a third time. "So... maybe the real killer set him up to take the fall?" A fourth tick. "Who would be a much larger person, someone who **could** drive a spike through someone like that. Is that really possible though, for one person to do that?"

"Human beings are incredibly strong, but our true strength is kept locked away until it is needed. Which hormone is the key that unlocks our strength?"

Driscoe thought for a moment, "Adrenaline?"

"And which emotions release adrenaline?"

"Anger? Black Peter was a blackmailer, people have plenty of reason to be angry with him. Someone went into a rage?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not," Sherlock said, "I have seen many cases where someone has displayed super-human strength - mothers picking up cars and flinging them away, and such like. In each case, what drove them was not rage."

"Fear?"

"Fear for...?" Sherlock prompted.

"Someone's life? Or their own? The killer may have felt his own life was in immediate danger and retaliated in self defence?" 

Another tick. "Which would indicate...?"

"That he might have been set up, too."

Another tick and Sherlock smiled, then called John and Lestrade back in. "I've looked at the evidence and asked you for your deductions, and then I asked for TDC Driscoe's. Would you like to see how she did?" He turned the paper. On it, he'd written out his own questions, then marked the responses of John, Lestrade and Driscoe. "Although she has a way to go to catch up to you two, she did rather well."

"And that's just what I need to back you up," Lestrade smiled at his pupil, "Well spotted, TDC Driscoe. You've likely just saved an innocent man from a wrongful conviction."

"Thank you, sir."

Sherlock smiled, "And provided us with another twist to our own investigation."

"Yes, about that," John interrupted. He reached to tap one of the pictures of the victim, "I'm sure I've seen that man before, recently. I've been trying to remember where." He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, but shook his head. "Look, um, could I have a few minutes? Would you mind going and getting yourselves some tea or something?" he said, trying to find a politer version of Sherlock's 'go away,' "I'm going to try something but I'm not that good at it." He cast pleading eyes at Sherlock, knowing he would understand. Sherlock immediately shot up out of his chair and herded the detectives out. 

John sat down and pressed his palms to his eyes, taking a deep breath. There was a reason he didn't often try this. Mycroft had once told him that many people resisted their minds' initial choice of location and John certainly resisted his. He swallowed, then let the image build and entered his mind palace.

_**Bastion.** Not anybody's idea of a palace, not at all. But Mycroft and Sherlock both said that the mind chose a place it knew well, and John certainly knew his base camp like the back of his hand. He looked around at the familiar surroundings, uncertain where to begin, where to go. Then he noticed the dog lying on the ground, watching him. It was a feral dog, a scruffy, lean mutt, sharpened by poverty and the hardness of the terrain. Though wary of people, it had become something of the camp's mascot. Despite its appearance, John had never known a more canny animal. Feeling silly, he nevertheless conjured the image of the dead man, and said "I've seen this man recently, I'm sure of it. Where did I see him?"_

_The dog cocked its head at him and got up, then trotted down the main path towards a distant building. At least, it looked distant at first, but somehow distance was irrelevant and John found himself standing in Riding Thorpe Manor. He looked around, puzzled, but followed the dog to a room they'd passed through briefly during their investigation, past a photograph of the staff..._ John opened his eyes and shot up out of the room to find Sherlock. "He was the gardener at Riding Thorpe Manor," he reported breathlessly, "I saw his name and photograph on the staff list in the servants' kitchen."

He nearly melted under the magnitude of Sherlock's smile. "Brilliant, John," he said, "And we've been taking a closer look at this photograph." He gestured at the computer screen, where two sections of the image had been zoomed.

"Cow prints," John said with satisfaction, "And... that looks like it might be the tip of one of those horseshoes."

Sherlock turned to Lestrade, "We need access to that crime scene."

* * * * 

Lestrade was shaking his head, "Unbelievable."

"Horseshoes that leave cow prints," John affirmed, the things clinking in his hand, "Let the assassin get on and off the property without being traced." He looked over at Sherlock, who had been describing to TDC Driscoe just **how** he had accumulated the data that allowed them to calculate the probable size and weight of a person delivering an adrenaline-boosted thrust, from the depth of the spike's penetration into the wall. "Any ideas?"

"Nothing that I didn't already know when we examined the photographs," Sherlock shrugged, "The spike-driver was most likely Lord Trelawny Hope himself. No doubt Mr. Carvey was informed of Lady Trelawny Hope's past and couldn't resist the opportunity to get a bit more than a gardener's wages. Our dear Foreign Secretary must have learned of it somehow and came to confront the man, only to be met by Black Peter's customer. There was an altercation during which Lord Trelawny Hope sought to defend himself with the spike and ran Black Peter straight through in his terror. He returned to the manor and there met his fate."

John was shaking his head slowly. Once again he felt the glow of admiration spread through him like warm brandy, lighting his spirit and warming his heart. "Brilliant," he breathed, "Just brilliant. It still amazes me, how you do that."

John had three smiles that Sherlock had come to live for, three smiles that filled him with the desperate desire to see them again and again, three smiles that he would do whatever it took to cause them to be. One was the smile of joy he got whenever they had a new case, anticipation giving John the same rush that it gave Sherlock, both of them riding on the same high. Then there was this smile, the smile that melted Sherlock and made him feel like a puppy who'd done a trick well. This was the smile of John proud of him and proud to be with him, by his side. It was the smile that made him want to twirl and jump for joy, punch the air in delight, pick him up and spin him around. But he couldn't do any of that, so he just smiled back and hoped his heart wouldn't burst from seeing John happy again.

"Um..." And of course **someone** just _had_ to ruin the moment, although it was TDC Driscoe this time, not Anderson or Donovan, so at least the next words spoken would likely be worth the oxygen it took to speak them, the way Lestrade's apprentice was going. She was crouching down, staring at the "cow" tracks with a puzzled frown, "Um, it's hard to be certain but.. I think there's more than one set of tracks here." She looked up, "Could he have had an accomplice?"

And Sherlock smiled, "I wondered if anyone else would pick up on that. Really, John, you should have been the first."

John frowned, "What? What do you mean?"

"Colonel Moran is a long-distance sniper," Sherlock explained, "In every instance we've encountered him, he's used a rifle from a distance."

Now John was nodding, "So why did he sneak up close to use a pistol?" Sherlock nodded then turned to look expectantly at Driscoe.

It took her a few moments but she didn't disappoint him. "He was setting somebody else up," she said at last, "He was framing someone else for the murder."

Sherlock nodded with satisfaction and turned to Lestrade, "More Driscoes, fewer Andersons."

"Well, she won't be TDC Driscoe for much longer," Lestrade drawled, "Very soon, she's going to be Detective Constable Stephanie Hopkins."

* * * * 

_"Your brother has registered a civil partnership."_

_"Well. Fancy that. I honestly didn't think he ever would."_

_"Then you'll understand the nature of the assignment I have for you?"_

_"Yesssss... Yes, I believe I do."_


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John enjoy a quiet moment before the fire _really_ starts to burn.

John had three smiles that Sherlock had come to live for, three smiles that filled him with the desperate desire to see them again and again, three smiles that he would do whatever it took to cause them to be. One was the smile of joy he got whenever they had a new case, anticipation giving John the same rush that it gave Sherlock, both of them riding on the same high. Then there was the smile of John proud of him and proud to be with him, by his side, the smile that melted Sherlock and made him feel like a puppy who'd done a trick well. 

And then there was this: The tender, adorable smile of John looking like he'd never been so happy in his life than he was right in this moment. It was the smile that Sherlock had died for the chance of preserving, the smile that gutted him at the thought that he could never see it again. And he would give anything, do anything, to see John look so blissful. As he looked right now. 

They lay spooned awkwardly on the couch, exploring each other's fingers. The fireplace crackled softly, the only light in the room now that John had switched off the telly. The rats were bruxing quietly in their cage, snuggled together in their burrow hammock. "That was awfully nice of you," John said quietly, "What you did for Trainee Driscoe."

"She needed the confidence boost," Sherlock replied just as softly, "Anderson's been harassing her, no doubt his entire team is. They'd end up driving out one of the few intelligent minds to enter the Met in years, if I didn't do something."

"High praise, coming from you."

"Mm. She doesn't get there as fast and she needs the experiences to match up to what her senses are telling her to be able to reach the right conclusions. She's got a promising future ahead of her."

"I'm a little surprised," John said hesitantly, "At how well **I** measured up."

Sherlock huggled him, briefly nuzzling his neck. "You shouldn't be," he said.

"You know I'm rubbish at deducing. I'm terrible at solving crimes."

Sherlock nipped his ear chidingly, "Only at the solving part. You _facilitate_ solving them better than anyone I've ever worked with. You're better at deduction than you give yourself credit for." He laced his leg around John's and pulled him closer still. "I was wrong when I said that you see but you don't observe; you observe in different areas and your observations send my thoughts going down different paths. It was you who spotted that there weren't any actual cattle in the vicinity, for example. I thought they'd just wandered off somewhere, doing whatever it is cattle do, but you pointed out that there weren't actually any there, and that made me take a closer look at the prints."

John thought about that for a little while. Sometimes he'd felt superfluous to Sherlock - not really _assisting_ him in any way, just following him around in case he got hurt. He hadn't really understood what Sherlock needed in his assistant, nor why Sherlock insisted he'd be lost without his blogger. Sherlock had insisted before that John often sent his thoughts in different directions, but he didn't always understand _how._ "Moran seems to be setting up an awful lot of people," he said, changing the subject.

"He is," Sherlock agreed, "I think he's tying up loose ends."

That made John's scalp crawl. He turned his head to look back over his shoulder, not able to turn enough to see Sherlock, "Tying up loose ends...? How d'you mean?"

"I think, once he finishes his last contract, he's leaving the business."

John knew the answer but he had to say it anyways. "And his last contract would be..."

"You."


End file.
